The Hidden Blade by Sherry Thomas Page B

himself.”
    Leighton felt as if someone stepped on his throat. Herb wouldn’t, would he?
    “Quite a coward, Mr. Gordon. I heard he left the country instead.”
    Leighton did his best to not exhale too obviously. Herb was safe—for now.
    Sir Curtis leaned back in his chair. “I am quite sorry that you had to grow up amid such nefarious influences.”
    Leighton remained silent.
    “Are
you
?” asked Sir Curtis.
    A chill ran down Leighton’s back—this was a question he could not bypass.
    He should lie. Sir Curtis would believe him—Sir Curtis who believed that strength must always detest frailty. And hadn’t Leighton lied brilliantly before Mother, convincing her that he was as self-righteous as Sir Curtis?
    “No, sir,” he said.
    Sir Curtis raised a brow. “No?”
    “No.”
    He could never be sorry to have been born to Nigel and Anne Atwood. He could never be sorry to have Marland for a brother. And he would always, always be glad to have had Herb’s friendship.
    For Mother and Marland, he was willing to undertake the Big Lie. But he would not denounce everyone he loved just so that he might have an easier time at Rose Priory.
    Sir Curtis shook his head slightly. But he only said, “I’m sure Mr. Colmes is waiting to begin your lessons. You may go.”

    Leighton had half expected Mr. Colmes to be incompetent, but the man was quite good at his profession, and two hours passed quickly under his tutelage. As the clock struck four, Mr. Colmes put away his chalk and closed his book. “That will do for the day. Come now, Master Leighton, let’s go for a walk in the gardens.”
    It had turned cold in the past few days. Rain pelted the windows of the house. A fog floated on the moors; one could not even see down to the low wall that surrounded the lowest level of the garden, let alone beyond.
    Leighton wouldn’t have guessed Mr. Colmes to harbor a fondness for the outdoors. But as he himself was game for venturing outside in any kind of weather, he fetched his coat, hat, and mackintosh, and walked out beside his tutor.
    They had walked for no more than a few minutes before Mr. Colmes exclaimed that it was chillier than he had thought and he would need a heavier coat. He returned to the house to change. Leighton continued to follow the garden path—and ran into Lady Atwood, coming from the opposite direction.
    He bowed. She nodded.
    He thought they would walk past each other, but she stopped, looked at him a moment, and said, “You are an odd one—quite wary for a little boy.”
    He was hardly little—already he stood taller than some grown women. But he did not argue with her characterization of him.
    She studied him more closely. “You don’t like me.”
    “I don’t know you enough to not like you,” he said carefully.
    “That is not true. You dislike me strongly. Why?”
    She didn’t seem at all affected by the distaste she had perceived in him, her curiosity wholly impersonal.
    “I don’t know you at all,” he repeated himself.
    “You are at least correct about that. So if you have no reason to dislike me personally, then…” Her eyes narrowed. “What do you have against my husband?”
    He said nothing.
    “If nothing else, you should admire him,” Lady Atwood admonished. “He is a godly man who donates his time to the service of his nation, a generous friend, and a devoted husband. And when he retires in a few years, we are going to Africa to save souls.”
    Leighton almost laughed aloud. Herb would have made a better hangman than Sir Curtis would a missionary.
    Lady Atwood’s countenance darkened. “You think there is something funny about God’s purpose for me?”
    So she was the one who wanted to be a missionary. “Was that your condition before you would marry him? That in a few years you will be able to go?”
    “That was his promise to me.”
    “Good luck with it.”
    “You dare doubt his integrity?”
    “Send me a photograph when he is under the African sun, preaching to the